BASKERVILLE, MON AMOUR

SHORTLY BEFORE THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, John Baskerville conceived the ‘Baskerville’ font in Birmingham, England.

Birmingham, England has many children playing games with sticks and rocks in the streets which are cobbled.

The John Baskerville font is delicious, modern and crisp.

It resembles other things.

By the way, Jazzy B lives in Birmingham. He played what they call Punjabi Music. He owned a colorful purple chemise and gold necklaces.

John Baskerville didn’t realize that the American Revolution was coming.

Although John Cadbury knew about the American Revolution. He was born in Birmingham. He loved it. And he ate lots of chocolate.



Sometimes it’s easy to ignore the obvious, or not know which way something is going to go. Such is the case with John Baskerville.

It’s like when someone hits a baseball out of the ballpark and–

I almost forgot. Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Birmingham, too. His wife’s name was ‘Touie.’ He had a distinguished moustache.

Anyway, and it can land it can land with a soft ‘plop’ in the grass or it can hit you in the head and strike you dead.

Such is the way of many modern things.

Like when Jazzy B always looks down in photographs, you think he is trying to look like Mickey Rourke. Is that possible?

Modern things hover in the air, and only God knows their true destiny–only God knows they’re coming, and where they are going to land.

In this way, all things resemble the Baskerville Font.




David Attenborough, the great naturalist and writer, also lived in Birmingham. He likes the word “destiny.” I hate the word “destiny.” It’s really more of a good word for the naturalists.

And with each passing year, our fonts that reflect our world become, like our world, increasingly more modern, crisp and delicious.

They tell of the world, for example: ‘Touie’ died of ‘tuberculosis.’ Strange, eh?

The world that is difficult to understand, reflected in fonts that are modern, clean and crisp, attractive in a way that makes one yearn for the old days when everything was so hard to read and life was simple and easy to understand.

Like a flower in the cap of a farmer in a tractor as he rides through the wheat fields dreaming of men with strong, supple thighs along the cobbled English roads.

The font becomes a divining rod, a Virgula divina if you will, as well as a source of comfort for all.

Speaking of the American Revolution, is it merely a coincidence that Arthur Conan Doyle died three days after the Fourth of July? I don’t think so.

“Surely, it is destiny!” David Attenborough always says.

But he was, well, from Birmingham.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007